


Gangster Tripping

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is drugged while undercover. Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gangster Tripping

**Author's Note:**

> I am taking extreme artistic license with a certain landmark skyscraper in Manhattan. Title is from a song of the same name by Fatboy Slim.

Neal put his foot onto Peter’s chair so he could remove the tracker. “You know, I’m without this thing more often than not, lately, so…” Neal began, a sly grin on his face. He inched his foot closer and closer to Peter’s crotch.

“Yeah. Not gonna happen,” Peter said, more sternly than he’d meant to and ignoring Neal’s lascivious smirk. Because this was no normal recon for Neal. The man who was his “mark” was a virtual unknown to the WC division, and would’ve remained so if it hadn’t been for Neal’s connections (OK, Moz). But they thought they’d finally found the leader of a brutal gang of counterfeiters who had already left a dead undercover NYPD cop in its wake. They had very little intel on the man, known only as Jay, so Neal was going in cold to try to learn what he could about him.

Peter stood up and placed the tracker on the desk. He handed Neal his earbud. “You know the drill - we’ll be able to track you with this, and we’ll have two-way communication. Don’t remove it.” Peter took Neal by the wrists and looked him in the eyes. He lowered his voice so that only Neal could hear him, squeezed lightly for emphasis. “Be careful. I don’t like what my gut’s telling me about this case.”

Neal nodded, all bravado and kidding set aside for now. He understood the risks and he hated for Peter to be worried. “Got it,” he said, sincere. “See you on the other side.” He turned and left the van, placing the device in his ear. He crossed the street to the bar where he was to meet the mark, paused at the door to straighten his jacket and cuffs, put his game face on. He squared his shoulders, muttered, “Here we go,” in a sing-song voice, and opened the door.

\----

Neal’s eyes scanned the bar, looking for his contact. Ronnie Vinson was the kind of mid-level player well-known around town as a matchmaker, putting buyers and sellers, producers and distributors, thieves and fences together for his own profit. Less well-known was the fact that Ronnie was an undercover FBI agent.

Neal spotted him at one corner of the bar. Ronnie was a thin man, wiry, with fine dark hair he kept combed back from an angular face that held beetle-black eyes that summed up the measure of a man with one glance. Neal didn’t like him one bit, but he was here to do a job.

“Ronnie,” Neal greeted, holding out a hand. Ronnie took it, leaned in to slap Neal on the back, bumping his shoulder with his own. It was a gesture Neal despised – so familiar and yet so awkward. He hoped his displeasure didn’t show on his face.

“Caffrey,” Ronnie said, gesturing for the bartender to come over. “What’ll you have?”

“Nothing right now,” Neal told the bartender and she moved off. Neal settled into his seat and regarded Ronnie. “What’s our play?”

“Guy’s name is Jay Cargill. Have no idea where he came from, but he blew into town like a hurricane. Ruffled a lot of feathers, but has smoothed out all the right ones, so he’s sitting pretty. He’s a player and he’s ruthless. He’s looking for a forger, and you my friend,” Ronnie looked Neal up and down appraisingly, “you’re just his type.”

Neal felt a knot forming in his stomach – so it was like that. He mentally reset his expectations and plan of attack. It wasn’t that he cared one way or the other – as long as he had an in – but he would’ve dressed differently if he’d known his mission was to seduce rather than just make a deal. He’d make it work. 

“There he is.”

Neal looked towards the door. Jay Cargill was slightly shorter than Neal, but powerfully built. He was well-tanned, with close-cropped fair hair and high cheek bones that set off green eyes the color of a cat’s. Neal took mental notes as he took in the man’s well-tailored suit, expensive shoes; he thought he knew how to approach this one.

Cargill spotted Ronnie and made his way over. They shook hands, but there was no forced rapping of each other on the back. Cargill was all business and Ronnie deferred to that. Neal thought he saw an expression of contempt cross his face as he looked at Ronnie, but he wasn’t certain. “Jay, I’d like you to meet –“

Neal held out a hand, kept his expression neutral. “Nick. Halden. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

With introductions out of the way, Ronnie took his leave. Neal gestured for the bartender. “What’ll you have?” 

“Bourbon." 

“Make that two,” Neal told the bartender and she moved off to fill the order. When the drinks arrived, Neal leaned forward across the bar, perhaps just a bit too close for a casual acquaintance, as he reached for a coaster off the pile that lay on the bar’s edge. With his left hand, he lifted the man’s billfold from his breast pocket. He’d get it to Peter to see if the man’s identity or fingerprints would lead to anything. He slipped it into his jacket pocket as he twisted his body around to his left, getting that much closer to Cargill. He held his glass up, said, “To new business partners,” and smiled winningly. 

Cargill gestured with his own glass and the two drank. “Let’s get a table,” he said. Neal noticed his voice was low, gravelly - a smoker, perhaps. He led the way to a vacant table in the back, away from anyone who might overhear their business. 

They sat, took pulls at their drinks and sized each other up. Neal held Cargill’s gaze and didn’t look away. He considered it a point of pride to engage with a mark this way – it showed he had nothing to hide. 

“I’m told you’ve got talents I should be taking advantage of,” Cargill finally said. He leaned in over the table, his shoulder canted forward. 

Neal picked up on it immediately; the man was interested. He decided to get down to business, let him stew. “Just tell me what you need. Do you need plates? I can find you an engraver. Paper stock? Inks? Not a problem. Counterfeit bonds or stock certificates? A personal specialty. I can even hook you up with an art forger if you’re so inclined.” 

Cargill smiled. “Have I seen your work before?” 

“If you know you’ve seen my work, then I’ve failed. I take my work and the success of my clients very seriously. My rates reflect that quality. If you need references, I am happy to provide them.”

“All in good time. I think first, though, that we’ll need another drink. Bourbon again?” 

Neal looked down at his glass and saw that he’d drained it. It was not normally his style to mix business with alcohol; he preferred to keep a clear head. Something inside him (something he’d question later) said what the hell, and he agreed to the second drink. Cargill moved off to the bar.

While he was gone, Neal took a moment to scan the bar again. He spotted Jones near the door, apparently talking up an attractive young woman, who Neal realized must’ve been another probie. He smiled – secure in the knowledge he was being watched over. Something about Cargill gave him the creeps. He resolved to make the time to take a look at the wallet he’d boosted from the man at his earliest opportunity. 

Cargill returned a minute later and handed him his drink. Neal toasted the man and took a swig. They continued their conversation and discussed scope and timing. After a time, Neal excused himself and headed to the men’s room. 

Once inside, he removed the item he'd boosted from Cargill and saw that it wasn't a wallet at all, but a familiar leather folder, and inside it he found government credentials and a badge. He looked closer. Jay Cargill was actually Raymond Swanson, an agent with the Secret Service. This revelation brought Neal up short – he wasn’t prepared to deal with a dirty government agent. He decided to get out to the van as soon as he could break away. 

However, in the interim, nature called, so Neal headed for the urinal. He swiftly took care of business, but as he was washing his hands, he was alarmed to notice that the edges of his vision were becoming blurry. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, but that didn’t clear his vision. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something – not now. He splashed cold water on his face and stood upright, staring at himself in the mirror. He found he couldn’t focus on his reflection. 

“Damn,” he muttered to himself, and he heard his own voice in his ears as if it were being muffled. He looked up at the lights and had his suspicions confirmed – the halo he saw around the lights could only mean one thing: He’d been drugged. He squeezed his face between both hands and said, “No, no, no, no, no,” softly to himself. It was the last coherent thing he’d remember for some time.

\----

Van. Get to the van. It was Neal’s only thought. He wasn’t even sure anymore why he felt the urgent need to go, and soon he couldn’t recall what or who was even in the van. But he did know he’d be safe there, and he had to go. If only he could remember where it was.

“Caffrey? Where’d you go?” he heard a voice say. He spun around. There was no one there.

“Has anyone got eyes on Caffrey? Jones?” said another voice. Wait, he recognized that one…

“He went into the restroom. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Check it out and report back.”

Neal whirled around again, paranoid. Someone was looking for him, he just couldn’t remember who or why.

“Cargill’s on the move,” the man named Jones said. “What do I do?”

“Keep Cargill in sight if you can. Taylor – go find Neal.”

Neal didn’t know why, he couldn’t remember, but the name Cargill spelled danger to him. He felt a small pressure in his ear, felt the area with his fingers. Something was stuck in his ear. He dug it out – a small device. The source of the voices, some small part of his mind told him. He threw the thing on the ground in disgust and panicked. Whoever they were, his overwrought mind reasoned, they wouldn’t be able to find him now.

Acting on instinct, he walked quickly down the street, keeping his head down, trying not to attract notice. He found himself on the edge of a park and slid through the gate. Inside it was dark, quiet. He found a bench and took a seat. He was dizzy. He needed to sit. He needed to think. He needed to…his attention was captured by a small movement to his right. A cat was hunting mice in the park. He followed her.

\----

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the migraine he could feel coming on, screwed his eyes up tight and sighed. “Tell me again how six highly skilled agents managed to lose not only our target, but our front man?”

Jones flinched. He knew to keep his mouth shut when Peter was like this. Taylor the probie, however, did not. “We don’t know, sir. They gave us the slip.”

Peter fixed him with his patented stink eye. “Thank you, Agent Obvious,” he spat. Taylor visibly blanched. Peter’s voice eased as he addressed Diana; she alone was spared his wrath tonight. Since she’d been sitting in the van with him the whole time, she had not had an opportunity to displease him. “Any luck raising Neal?”

“I’m getting nothing but traffic noises. He must’ve ditched the comm.”

“Something’s not right. If he didn’t leave with Cargill, why didn’t he come back here?”

“Maybe he ran?” Taylor suggested. Like animals fleeing an approaching tornado, Jones and Diana took a step back from Peter as he slowly turned to face Taylor.

“Get out of my sight,” he said, his voice low, even, calm. Taylor fled the van. Peter turned back to Diana. “I want every available agent on the team out looking for Caffrey. Report back to me every half hour.”

\----

Ray Swanson, also known as Jay Cargill, watched Neal from the shadow of a large maple. The kid had finally stopped stalking small animals and was lying atop a retaining wall, staring at the canopy of trees above his head. After Neal had left their table at the bar, it hadn’t taken Swanson long to realize that his wallet was gone and who had likely taken it. He’d already slipped the drug into the younger man’s drink, figuring he’d at least get a good lay out of the evening. He had no intention of adding another man to his crew; things were good – his crew was tight. But he owed Ronnie the courtesy of a meeting, and he liked what he saw when he finally met Nick Halden. He had decided he could afford to have a little fun tonight.

But then the kid took his wallet, and he knew he couldn’t let that go. He couldn’t allow his identity to be compromised, even to some two-bit hustler like Halden. So tonight’s fun would be of a different sort. Swanson straightened his jacket, felt the reassuring bulk of the gun nestled in his shoulder holster. Nick Halden didn’t know what he was in for.

\----

Neal lay on the ground in a patch of English ivy atop a retaining wall in the park, fascinated by the sensations of the cool ground along the length of his body, the tickle of the ivy’s leaves on his face and throat. He spent five minutes staring at an earthworm wriggling in the dirt in front of his nose.

Then he heard the crack of a twig behind him, and his calm, blissed-out interlude came to an end. Despite his drugged condition, some primal, self-preservationist portion of his brain kicked into high gear and he was able to channel his senses, pinpoint his awareness to that one point behind him. He sat up abruptly; if he were a dog, his ears would’ve pricked up.

He turned, saw a shadow move and leapt down off the wall onto the path below. He paused long enough to confirm that there was, indeed, someone there, and then he took off, instinctively running on his toes to make the least amount of sound. He was soon out of the park, turned left and ran as fast as he could down the block. He made another left, then a quick right, hoping to lose his pursuer quickly. He found himself in an alley behind a restaurant. He climbed up onto the building’s loading dock and hid behind a storage bin.

\----

Swanson cursed under his breath as he watched Halden rabbit. He’d lost his element of surprise, and the kid was a lot faster than he gave him credit for. He ran off after him, determined to track him down. In his state, he doubted he’d get very far.

\----

Neal’s breathing was beginning to return to normal when he felt a vibration somewhere around his left nipple. Then again, and again. Realization dawned, and he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone. He peered closely at the display, held it close to his face to read it clearly: 15 text messages. The last one read:

From: Peter Cell – Where the hell are you? I’m getting worried.

Peter – of course. Peter would help him. In his confusion and panic, he’d forgotten about the one person he could count on to get him out of this. He was about to press the “Call” button on Peter’s contact record when he heard footsteps. His pursuer had found him! He pressed himself back against the wall of the loading dock, hoping the shadows there would hide him well enough. He couldn’t risk a voice call so he decided to send Peter a text. He peered out of the loading bay to see if he’d been discovered, ready to flee if he had to.

\----

Peter’s phone plinked at him, indicating a new text:

From: Neal Cell – hp

“hp?” He muttered. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Then realization dawned – could it be “help?”

Where are you? he typed in reply. He gestured to Diana. “Caffrey just sent me a text. See if you can’t triangulate his phone.” Diana nodded and complied.

Neal’s response came back in a little over a minute, but it felt like an eternity to Peter.

Here, it said.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Really? That’s what you’ve got for me?” He asked of his phone, exasperated.

Where’s here? he typed, but no answer came. “Anything?” he asked Diana. His normal resolve in such situations was beginning to crumble, and she could see the tension and panic written plainly on his face. She glanced at her screen. The phone’s signal was pinging a cell tower on the Upper West Side. “He’s somewhere in this 10-block radius,” she said, pointing to the screen. But until he makes a call, we won’t be able to triangulate.”

“It’s something. Get me Captain Shaduck on the phone. Maybe he can spare a couple of patrols in the area for us.”

\---

Neal stayed crouched down where he was, making himself into as small a ball as he could to escape detection. A door from the restaurant opened behind him, flooding the loading bay with light from within. Neal held up a hand to shield his eyes from the harsh light, blinking, panic-stricken. A large man stood framed by the door, but the light was too bright for Neal to see his face.

“There you are,” he said, and took a step toward Neal.

“What?” Neal said, standing.

“Didn’t Ivo send you? I’ve been waiting for you to show all night. You got my weed?”

“No, I…” he was suddenly too confused to talk and stood blinking at the man.

“You all right, buddy?” the man said. His name was Luis and he was the chief line cook in the restaurant. At six feet and three inches and 287 pounds, he was a formidable presence, which was needed in his line of work, where on any given day he might be called upon to break down a hundred chickens or bounce a few rowdy customers from the dining room.

Luis took a step towards Neal and with a glance saw that the young man was not entirely with it. He’d seen it before – pupils impossibly large, sheen of sweat on the face, nervous and paranoid – the man was on some sort of drug trip, and Luis took pity on him. He eased forward another step, holding his hands out in what he hoped was a calming manner. But Neal’s primal fight or flight instinct was more weighted towards flight this evening, and he slipped past the storage bin, jumped off the loading dock and ran out of the alley.

And straight into Ray Swanson.

Neal practically bounced off of Swanson’s broad chest, but the larger man grabbing him by the wrist before he could spin away. Neal cried out as his wrist was wrenched painfully around. He struggled, but Swanson’s size and Neal’s drugged state had him at a severe disadvantage.

Swanson spun Neal around and pushed him against a nearby building, hard. Neal’s head made contact with the brickface, opening up a large cut over his right eye. Before he could react, Swanson was on him, landing quick blows to Neal’s kidneys and side that took the breath from his lungs. Neal was sagging to the ground when Swanson grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back painfully, nearly dislocating his shoulder.

“I think you have something of mine, boy,” Swanson sneered into Neal’s ear as he pinned him against the wall from behind. Neal knew nothing but confusion and fear. His already diminished senses could process nothing else - not the other man’s erection grinding against his hip, nor the holstered gun that dug into Neal’s upper arm as he was searched for the wallet he had boosted earlier. It certainly didn’t register right away when he was suddenly released from his pursuer’s rough grasp.

Neal turned around, back leaning against the wall, and saw the reason for his sudden freedom. An elderly woman in a filthy camel hair coat was beating Swanson up with the carved wooden handle of a rather large umbrella. As she landed a nasty blow across his jaw, she began to yell, “Help! Police! Murder!”

Not willing to explain his reasons for assaulting an old woman and obviously drugged conman, Swanson took the opportunity to cut his losses and retreat.

Once Swanson had gone, the woman came towards Neal, her face still fierce from the altercation. Eyes wide, breathing hard, Neal had sunk to the ground with his knees to his chest, his legs having lost the ability to hold him up. He peered up at the woman as she stood directly over him and said, “Are you all right, dear?”

“Nana?” he managed to say before finally passing out.

\----

Peter sat in the van, face expressionless, as the search for Neal Caffrey continued around him. He fielded questions and processed reports from the team as they came in, all the while betraying no outward indication of the emotional turmoil he was feeling within.

Neal was missing, last seen with a very dangerous and unknown suspect, and though it bothered him to admit it, he was worried. While he’d never doubt Caffrey would take any opportunity to go the reservation, there was no reason to suspect it tonight. No indication of a caper Neal would be interested in, not a whiff of Alex resurfacing, providing that irresistible lure. No, he was positive Caffrey hadn’t run.

The text messages had been alarming to say the least. They were incoherent, sloppy. Neal prided himself on his impeccable grammar and communication skills – he wouldn’t be caught dead using text-language. “If it’s worth saying, it’s worth spelling properly,” he always said. No, something was definitely wrong and Peter was indeed worried for his CI.

Peter had felt an undeniable closeness growing between him and Neal over the last weeks and months. There had always been a flirtation – hell, it was the cost of admission where it came to Caffrey. But the more time they spent together, the more he found himself caring what Neal thought, how he felt, what he did. So it was unsurprising that now, with the younger man likely in very real danger as a result of an operation gone bad, Peter was nearly beside himself with worry, and not a little guilt for once again asking Neal to risk his life for the sake of the Bureau.

But he couldn’t show any outward signs of his feelings. No, he was the team’s leader and his reaction would be the same if it were Jones or Diana’s safety on the line as well. So he sat, displaying a calm he did not feel, and managed his team’s way through the crisis. And finally, at around 2:00 am, they caught a break.

“Boss,” Diana called from outside the van. “I think we’ve got a lead.

“What is it?” Peter said as he stepped outside. He saw they’d been joined by a uniformed NYPD officer, who was finishing his story to Jones.

“Reports of an assault uptown. Victim fits Neal’s description. Taylor’s on his way to check it out.”

“No, I’ll go myself. I’m going stir crazy in there. Care to tag along?”

“Sure. I’ll let Jones know.”

Fifteen minutes later, they joined a pair of city detectives interviewing witnesses on the street. “See, what had happened was, I came outside for a smoke, and this dude was just standin’ there,” a large Hispanic man was reporting to anyone who would listen. Diana approached to get his story.

“FBI, sir. Can you describe him?”

“White guy. Blue suit. My man was trippin’ balls. I axed him if he wanted help, and he just took off.”

Peter let the conversation flow over him as he moved on to the next witness, an elderly woman who appeared to be homeless. “Oh the poor thing, he thought I was his Nana,” she was saying.

“Agent Burke, FBI. Can you describe the two men you saw?”

She looked at Peter suspiciously. “What do the Feds have to do with this?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs…?”

“Humphrey. Irene Humphrey.”

Peter smiled patiently, which always got the witnesses to cooperate. “Mrs. Humphrey, we believe the young man who was assaulted is an associate of ours who went missing earlier this evening. Did he tell you his name?”

“No. He was very strange. I think he was drugged or something, the poor dear. He was so confused.”

“Can you describe the assailant?”

“Very large. Not too tall, but big. You know, like one of those steroid cases. Blonde. Tan suit. I think he had a gun.”

“Can you remember anything else about the incident? Did either of them say anything?”

“Well, the young man had something the other man wanted, and he was trying to get it back. Oh, he really did a number on him. So that’s when I knew I had to step in.”

“Step in? How?”

She held up her umbrella. “I call it the peacemaker. Ask anyone in the neighborhood – no one bothers old Irene. I run the neighborhood watch.”

Peter found himself smiling in spite of the situation. “Do you? And what happened next?”

“Well, the big guy left, and then the young man just kind of collapsed for a while. I tried to wake him, but he just lay there like a lox. I found this wallet on him, thought it’d help if I knew his name, but it’s not his.” She handed the wallet over to Peter, who opened it and found Swanson’s credentials and identity inside.

Peter blanched as realization dawned. Not only was Neal on the run from a dangerous murderer, but that man was also a Federal agent. “What happened next, Irene?” he asked, tense.

“Well, finally the young man woke up. He was still confused and I told him he should see a doctor, but he insisted he had to leave. He said he needed to go to Thursday. Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Not by a long shot. He said he had to – “

“Go to Thursday. I don’t think he was right in the head.”

“Yes, well, that’s all relative. Thank you, Irene. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

“I hope you find your friend,” she said, and turned her attention to the detective, who wanted to get her to sign her statement.

Peter went over to Diana and motioned her aside.

“From what everyone’s saying, it looks like Neal is on drugs or something,” she said, brow furrowed with concern. It was entirely unlike Neal to take drugs, so she knew something must be seriously wrong.

Peter showed her Swanson’s wallet. “It gets worse. The old lady took this off of Neal. I think it must’ve belonged to Cargill.”

“Secret Service? Guess that explains the counterfeit operation. If he knows Neal has made him, he’s not going to stop until he’s found him.”

“I know. But I think I’ve got an idea where Neal is headed. We need to talk to the little guy.”

\----

Peter filled Hughes in on the case as Diana drove them across town. An accusation of criminal activity against a well-placed Secret Service agent was going to take more juice than Peter had to make stick, and the rest of the investigation was going to have to be conducted with care. Peter hardly cared; right now, he needed to get Neal back safely.

He spotted Mozzie standing in the shadow of a closed newsstand, and indicated to Diana to pull over. She parked on the side street and the two of them walked over to Neal’s waiting friend.

Mozzie, Peter could tell, was furious. Or what equated to fury for Moz – it was hard to tell. Most of the man’s emotions played as petulance.

“Surely the FBI ought to be offering Neal hazard pay by now, Suit,” he said in a snit as Peter came to a stop next to him.

Peter sighed but didn’t protest; Mozzie wasn’t wrong to be upset. “Neal was undercover, and we think he was drugged. According to witnesses, he said he had to get to Thursday. Where’s Thursday?”

Mozzie gestured behind him casually.

“The Chrysler Building? Thursday is the Chrysler Building?” Peter said, incredulous.

“Thursday’s in the Chrysler Building. Come with me.” Moz led them into the building’s main entrance, where the overnight security guard greeted them warmly. “Late night, Mr. C.?” he said.

“It is indeed, Lester. These are my friends. We won’t be long.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. C.”

Moz led the way to a bank of elevators and entered an access code to allow them to travel to the 61st floor. They rode in silence for a few minutes before Diana nudged Moz in the arm and said, “Awww. You said we’re you’re friends.”

“Don’t push it, Lady Suit,” Moz sniffed, but there was s twinkle in his eye as he looked at her.

The elevator arrived, and Moz crossed to a door to a suite on the Southwest corner of the building. The lock had obviously been picked, as the door stood slightly ajar. “I see our boy is here,” Moz commented, and led them inside.

The suite they entered was vast and richly appointed, causing even Peter to pause to take it in. “Is that a Georges Braque?” he asked, indicating a large painting on an easel nearby.

“A reproduction,” Moz pointed out, only a little shiftily. He crossed to a nearby table and threw his jacket over the head of a Rodin bust in bronze; no need for more questions from the Suits. “Neal?” he called out, moving towards the office in the back, which he’d had converted into a studio.

Peter suddenly realized he heard someone singing. “Night and day, under the hide of me,” came the voice, but it was faint. He followed the sound, which led him to a glass door that opened onto a small terrace outside. He pushed through and the singing was louder. “There's ooh, such a hungry yearning, burning inside of meeee.”

He looked around. The balcony butted up against one of the famous art deco eagles that adorned the corners of the historic building.

And lying along its neck was Neal, hand on his chest as he sang to himself. “And this torment won't be through, Till you let me spend my life making love to yoooou!”

Peter nearly fainted. “Neal!” he called, “Jesus, what are you doing out there?”

Neal turned his head and beamed at Peter. “Hey, buddy! I knew you’d find me.”

“Come down from there, Neal.” Peter didn’t consider himself to be afraid of heights so much as he held a healthy respect for them. Seeing Neal sprawled precariously across a national landmark 600 feet in the air made him extremely nervous. Keeping his back against the wall, he gestured for Neal to come toward him.

“Best view in the city,” Neal commented, sitting up and dangling a foot.

“Better from here, I’ll bet.”

“Nah. You should come out here. It’s surprisingly peaceful.”

“I’ll take a pass. Come on down.”

“Is it time to go?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s time to go.”

“OK.” He made his way back to the railing and Peter helped him over. Neal winced as he moved. “Ow.”

“What happened? Are you OK?” Neal leaned on Peter, who helped him towards the door and back into the building.

“I don’t remember. Moz!” Neal beamed at Mozzie as he came to join them, Diana not far behind.

“What are you on?” Moz asked.

“Dunno. Bad stuff. I – there was a case. And a bad man. And a cat.”

\----

The elevator reached the lobby without stopping. Peter, Diana and Moz were off and walking towards the exit before Peter realized Neal hadn’t followed along. He hurried back to find Neal swaying drunkenly on his feet, staring intently at the buttons on the control panel. He took him by the elbow and guided him out to the car.

Peter helped Neal into the back seat. Moz took the passenger seat and Diana was driving, which left Peter to take the seat next to Neal. When they turned a corner, Neal fell against Peter and stayed there, leaning into him and sighing. Peter patted his shoulder uncomfortably, but Neal nuzzled in closer, burying his face in Peter’s neck. He sighed and seemed to fall asleep.

He stirred awake as the car came to a stop at a traffic light. He gave a small laugh and, without preamble, Neal started rubbing a palm over Peter’s crotch. “Hey!” Peter stiffened and moved away, pressing himself against the door. Neal flopped over with his head across Peter’s lap.

“Oh yeah, I should’ve warned you,” Moz called from the front seat. “Neal gets handsy when he’s out of it.”

“You don’t say!” Peter exclaimed, slapping Neal’s hand away from his zipper. Diana laughed.

\----

Neal woke the next morning to a room that was at once too hot and too bright for the throbbing in his head to cope with. He moaned in protest as he tried to open his eyes, squinting painfully against the glare of the sun coming through the windows of his private room. He glanced over to find Peter sitting in a chair next to the wall, NY Times crossword half completed in his lap. “Good morning,” Peter greeted him with a smile.

“Why am I in the hospital?” Neal said, his voice raspy.

“They said you wouldn’t remember, and I didn’t believe them. But I guess it’s true. Cargill slipped you some Rohypnol at the bar.”

Neal looked disturbed and alarmed. Peter got up and stood next to the bed, put a hand on Neal’s shoulder and said gently, “Don’t worry, he – well, he only beat the crap out of you. You’ve got a bruised kidney and a concussion. Other than that, doc says you’ll be fine.”

Neal ran a hand over his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “I can’t believe I’m relieved to have gotten my ass kicked. Why are you still here?”

“Cargill is actually a Secret Service agent named Swanson. At some point, you must have picked his pocket and seen his credentials, but the drug kicked in before you could tell us, and you wandered off. Until we bring him in, you’re still in danger.”

“Thanks. How’d you find me?”

“Well, it took a few hours, but you wound up at Thursday. Mozzie helped us out.”

“I’m going to catch hell now. He’s very protective of Thursday.”

“I can imagine. I found you lying on top of the eagle.”

“You lie!”

“Singing Cole Porter.”

“OK, that sounds like me. I was really out on the side of the building?” Neal laughed.

“I’m glad you can laugh about it. I just about fainted.”

“You’re not good with heights,” Neal agreed. They shared a laugh, but soon Neal turned serious again. “Listen Peter, thanks for looking for me, and for watching over me. It means a lot. More than you know.” Neal couldn’t quite meet Peter’s eyes as he made this last admission.

Peter sat on the bed facing Neal, and placed his hand on Neal’s knee. “I think I do know, and I’ll admit it’s not an unappealing prospect to me. But you’re my CI and my partner, and nothing can come of it.”

Neal finally met his eyes. “I understand,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment. It had been some time since he realized he had feelings for Peter; leave it to some op gone wrong to bring them to the fore and make a mess.

They sat in silence for several minutes until Neal found he could deal. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t make out from time to time, does it?” Neal said, smiling mischievously.

“Don’t press your luck.”

“The odd BJ in the back of the van?” Neal waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Tease.”

“Quick hand job in the Taurus?”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
